


the stages of grief

by vascool



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: F/F, F/M, Heavy Swearing, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Multi, Self-Harm, So angsty jfc, Therapy, death mentions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-12 08:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vascool/pseuds/vascool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Five years PostRENT.) Roger has died, and Mark isn't sure what to do now. This fic follows Mark, as well as Mimi, through the stages of grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A dark smog had settled over New York City, a seemingly fitting weather for what had happened that day.

Roger was dead. 

Mark and Mimi, being the two who were closest to Roger, had stayed by him throughout his stay in the hospital; holding his hand throughout the time, as he got sicker and sicker. Mark didn't want to be there, though. He felt didn't want Roger to die. He didn't want to see him this close to death. He felt sick so sick so sick. 

Mark started biking a lot more, instead of paying for a taxi to places. People say exercising helps with depression. Unfortunately, he didn’t eat very often; what was the point of eating when you were nauseous and threw up every time? 

He rarely used his camera much anymore. It wasn’t that he didn’t like filming anymore, but, it reminded him of Roger. Roger was the one who encouraged him to pursue a career in filmmaking. Mark's parents were less than excited when they were told Mark wanted to be a filmmaker. Roger was ecstatic. "Maybe you could make a documentary about a rock star's rise to fame." he suggested, a huge grin on his face. Oh god, Mark could still remember that day almost perfectly. 

It was Roger's funeral today. 

Mark was less than okay. He thought about Angel. He thought about how everything that could go wrong went wrong when she died. When she died the disease of loneliness infected the group. She was an important part of their lives. She was the understanding one, the one who somehow knew every friend before they even knew themselves. When she died, it smashed Collins’ world; it had cracked Mark’s.

Where Angel’s death was the crack, Roger's death was the shatter. All Mark really had left was Mimi. He had Collins, Joanne, and Maureen too, but Collins hadn’t been around lately, and Joanne and Maureen had each other. Mark and Mimi had bonded over Roger, becoming rather close friends. 

He saw the flowers on the casket and he, feeling hyper sensitized, could smell their sickly sweet, fake smell. Gagging, he realized he was going to puke. He slipped out the doors unnoticed by anyone other than Mimi, whom after watching him leave the room, followed him. After leaving the sanctuary he walked, no, ran to the men's room and threw up in one of the stalls. Mimi entered the room, and Mark knew it was her because of the click-click-click-click of her heels. 

"You're not supposed to be in here." he said, his voice choked up, his nose stuffy. “This is a men’s room.”  
“Mark.”  
“What?”  
“Mark, just open the door.” Mimi said, her voice a delicate whisper, as though she was scared that is she spoke any louder the windows would shatter, the building would cave, the world would crash down around the two even more than it had.

Mark, who was sitting on the lid of the toilet seat, his legs pulled to his chest, stood up and opened the door. His face was streaked with tears, and Mimi smiled sadly, her eyebrows pulled down. “It’s going to be alright, Mark. I miss him too, but it,” her voice cracked. “It’ll be okay.”  
Mark didn’t believe her, but didn’t like when people worried over him. “I know Meems. Just emotional, I guess. I’m sorry; I’m making this all about myself. You’re probably going through a worse time, since you two were dating.”

She opened her arms, offering a hug. Mark feeling rather awkward and sick and oh god he’s gonna pass out, obliged, and hugged back.  
“Do you think you can come back out?” she asked.  
“Yeah, I think I can.”

****

The funeral seemed to go by quickly, and Mark tried to disconnect from what was happening as much as possible. Mimi went up and presented the eulogy she wrote, and it was good but Mark really couldn’t remember much more after that. Mimi always seemed to be so much better put-together than him. He really didn’t know why he was having such a reaction to the funeral. He was fine when Roger was dying. Now it just seemed so real, too real, and yet not real. Everything was a mix up and Mark wasn’t sure what actually happened and what his brain thought happened.  
Now, the funeral was finally over. It was done. Roger was officially dead. It became too much for Mark to handle and he rushed to the bathroom of the loft – the loft that he and Roger had shared. A wave of nausea swept through him, and he hanged his head over the toilet bowl. His hands naturally placed themselves on the sides of the toilet, until he retched the second time and they slipped to the floor, causing him to hit his chin on the toilet.

The nausea passed after a few hours; however, he remained in the bathroom. He seemed to swallow himself up by pulling his legs in close to his body, his stupid sweater feeling not warm enough. The tile floor of the bathroom was cold. Cold. Mark thought of Roger. His hands were cold as he got sicker and sicker. Oh, god. What if Mark somehow got AIDS? No, that was stupid. He knew he didn’t have AIDS. He didn’t, it was his brain, which was probably thrown off from the puking. Electrolytes thrown off. Do electrolytes throw off your brain? Mark couldn’t remember.

“Get your ass up off the floor, Cohen.” he said sharply to himself; the loft was so empty, and Mark felt the freedom to say whatever he wanted. His eyes flickered to the mirror, and he noticed a bruise on his chin. He let out a bitter chuckle as he went out of the chilly bathroom, and stomped into his bedroom. Mark grabbed the first worry-able thing he could get his hands on - his stack of unused film. He wouldn't need it now, who would he film? 

Mimi would find someone else. She’d probably find someone who wouldn't get along with Mark, since no one would be as good for her as Roger. Oh, shit! What if she started using again...? He shook the thought. She wouldn't. She couldn't. 

Collins was gone, starting a restaurant in New Mexico, like he and Angel used to talk about. Maureen and Joanne were planning on having an uninterrupted wedding, where they didn't scream at each other. Mark? Alone. No need to film. He tore it up into pieces, then, pushed himself towards his bed, flopping onto it. 

He lay there for what seemed like hours until he calmly got up began re-watching the movie he made nearly three years ago. Back when things were better than they were now. Well, somewhat not better. At least this year he wasn't slicing his skin open. 

He wasn't being vain in watching his own movie. Mark remembered everything. Dates, ages, events, names... everything except for faces. That's partly why he loved filming his friends. They would forever be caught on camera and remembered, and what better way to have them live on?

Mark watched the film intently, watching the expressions of each of his friend’s faces. When Roger first flickered onto the screen Mark choked a little bit. He was so happy, and now he was dead. The word ‘dead’ repeated in Mark’s head over and over, seemingly unstoppable. His legs and hands shook profusely as he began to cry. It was his fault that Roger got AIDS. His fault that April killed herself. He knew that they were getting high; he should’ve stopped them as soon as he realized. If only he was braver, if only he wasn’t so weak and scared. 

If only. Mark didn’t realize the movie had ended until he took himself out of his thoughts, and he ended up falling asleep on the couch.


	2. Chapter 2

“SPEAK.”  
“Mark? It’s your mother. I know you’re home. Please pick up.”  
Mark continued to sleep, his mother’s words fading deeply into his subconscious dreams.  
“I’m sorry to hear about Roger. Love you, honey. Please call back.”

A couple of hours after his mother had called, Mark woke up. He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand, and let out a groan. There was that raw, throbbing ache in his head again; a migraine. Mark had suffered from migraines frequently as a child, which his mother would usually play doctor for and give him ibuprofen or aspirin. Present day, Mark had no medication at all, and had to deal with the headache on his own terms. He pulled out his tiny flip-phone, checking the time. 12:48 P.M. He had slept in. He sat on the couch for a beat or two, wondering if anyone would call today to check up on him. Probably not. He should call Mimi. 

Mark got up off the couch, and walked towards the kitchen he and Roger had made back when they had first moved in here. He remembered those days still. Back when they had enough money to buy basic human necessities, such as a stove and a mini-fridge. He remembered when Roger and he argued over what colors they were going with for the kitchen. Mark said brown, Roger said blue. Maureen used to joke that Mark was probably having an affair with Roger behind her back. It was ironic, because Roger had told Mark again and again that Maureen was bad for him. Mark wouldn't believe him. Deep down, he knew him and Maureen weren't going to work out, but he loved her, or thought he did, and wanted to believe that she wouldn't do something like that. Trust is an important thing in relationships.

Opening the mini-fridge door, Mark looked for something to eat. His stomach was still upset, but he wanted to have some kind of substance in him. Leftover take-home boxes of food from bar and grills the group had gone to, and a few packages of yogurt. How bleak. Mark changed his mind; he’d rather go hungry than eat food that was probably past the expiration date. 

He thought he might want to go change his clothes, and possibly even take a shower if the water wasn't freezing cold, but he didn't. He just walked back to the couch, and sat. Reaching over, he pressed the button to listen to the messages on the answering machine. The machine began replying the recording Mark’s mother had left him. She said she was sorry about Roger. Why was she sorry about Roger? Roger was fine. Roger was probably down visiting Mimi, or even seeing how Collins was doing down in Santa Fe. 

Mark may have had a problem with lying to himself, but it helped him get through the day. He lied to himself throughout his school years, through his relationship with Maureen, the breakup, and now with Roger. It was a sort of coping mechanism, though it may not have been as healthy as most coping mechanisms should be. It made things less painful, less true, and less real. Mark let out a disgruntled sigh. The recording his mother left was finished, and moved on to the next recording. “Mark, I heard about Roger-” It was Collins. Mark frowned. “- he’s gone.“ What was he talking about? “- dead –“ No. “And I’ll be there in about a week to come see how you’re doing.” 

Collins was coming to the loft in a week? Mark wondered if he was going to stay there for a while. He wondered if the restaurant was doing all right. He hoped so; he hoped that Collins would become successful. He used to be the only one of them with a real job, until Mimi and Joanne joined the ragtag group of friends. Then he was fired. 

Mark began to think about chance. He wasn't usually the type of person to believe in “chance” and “fate,” but he knew that if Collins wasn't fired, he wouldn't be on his way back for Christmas, and wouldn't have gotten mugged, so he wouldn't have met Angel. Without Angel, who knows where the lot of them would be?

Mark missed her. She was the only one who had picked up on Mark’s mental illnesses, and possibly the only person who was as observant as him. It was a real shame she was gone, she brought many beautiful things into it.  
Now was not the time to write a 3-years-dead girl’s eulogy. He sighed, trying to get up the motivation to begin sorting through Roger’s things. He knew enough to not have Collins spend his visit on the couch, and when Mark shared a bed, he kicked people in his sleep. 

After a while, Mark had begun looking over Roger’s old room. The memories came back to him, reminiscent of a flood. He had to sit down, and when he did, he noticed the guitar in the corner. He struggled to ignore it, but he couldn't help himself. He reached over and began to strum the guitar, playing a simple tune.

A couple months ago, just when Roger began to first feel ill, he taught Mark how to play a few chords. It was now one of the only things left to connect Mark to Roger. Mark knew he would not be able to get rid of the thing. He ended up putting it in his room. 

He also found the copies of mixtapes Roger had kept. Roger made copies of each mixtape he made, so he could keep the memories of each with him forever. Roger wasn’t usually a sentimental person, except on rare occasions. Mark kept the mixtapes. 

After clearing out the rest of Roger’s old room, he put the remaining things into boxes. He supposed he should let Mimi sort through them too. Or should he? Though Mark doubted he himself would, he wanted Mimi to be able to move on after Roger. He paused, but then closed the lids of the boxes, not taping over the lids. He’d let her find things. He owed it to her. It was his fault Roger was dead, anyways.  
Mark heard the end beep of his answering machine, and walked out to the machine. Pressing a button, the speakers buzzed to life and began playing the crackling recording.

“Mark? Please pick up the phone.” Maureen. Weird, why didn’t she use his nickname? She usually referred to him as ‘Marky’ if Joanne was around, just to get on Joanne’s nerves. Something was wrong.  
“Who’re you talking to?” called a voice, sounding distant on the recording. “I’m trying to call Mark.” A pause. “I called him earlier; didn’t answer.” “Didn’t answer Mimi either, I’m starting to worry.” The beep signifying the record was over sounded. What were they all worried about? He was fine. He was always fine.

Mark still hadn’t beaten his habit of lying to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

About a week after the bereaving funeral, Mark seemed to be a bit better; his color had returned to normal. However, he still seemed to stay away from social situations as much as possible. He was terrified of loneliness, and yet, the kid locked himself away for a week. Mimi, Joanne, and Maureen had called multiple times; Maureen stood outside the loft’s door for over an hour, trying to get him answer; and Mimi sneaked up into the loft through the window, as she had done when she first met Roger. Mark was asleep, and frankly he looked like the embodiment of death, so she let him sleep while she tidied up things, as well as taking the boxes he had written a note on.

The note read “TaKe tO Mimi oN FRiday.” God, his handwriting was shitty. It was so quickly scrawled that the letters ran together, so that you could just barely what he had intended to write. She glanced over to him as he slept. At least it appeared he was peaceful while he slept. Mark deserved a break.

Mark never found out about Mimi’s sort-of-break-in; didn’t even notice the boxes had disappeared. The days dragged along, and Mark got as much sleep as he possibly could. At night when he went to his room, he would sit on the bed and strum the guitar, struggling to teach himself the instrument. 

Having been taught violin at a young age, Mark was able to play the violin exceedingly well, though he hadn’t picked one up for a couple years. He had to sell the one he owned a while back, so he could rake in some money for food. He played a few times for the group, when they were all together; he always got very flustered whenever people complimented how he well played. He knew he was okay at it, but he didn’t want to be complimented. He didn’t know why compliments made him feel so uncomfortable.

Sighing, he gently set the guitar down onto the bed, and leaned back onto the bed. Why wasn’t he picking up on it faster? Violin and guitar couldn’t be too different from each other, this should be easy. He rubbed his hands into eyes, causing black spots to flicker back and forth for a few seconds. He eventually dozed off in a state of frustration and anger.

*

A loud blaring noise came from the main room of the loft, causing Mark to awaken from his half-asleep state. He changed the “SPEAK.” to a simple beep. Mark, feeling more energetic than usual, got up from his bed and went to listen to who it was calling.  
“Hey, Mark. It’s Collins. I’ll meet you at the Life Café. No excuses or backing out. The girls all said they would come too, it’s almost like you all missed me or somethin’! Anyways, see you soon.” Mark smiled at the message. He missed Collins. He missed them all.

So he was going to the Café. He had to look presentable. Mark had not showered for roughly six to eight days, had not changed out of his pajamas. The only self-care thing he had bothered to do was brush his teeth. 

Mark muttered to himself something along the lines of “Nothing to wear” and, “I always wear that.” He finally picked out a blue and grey plaid shirt, matched with grey pants. Mark wasn’t the most fashionable, but he looked good enough for having no money, he figured.   
The Life Café; the last time he had been there, Roger was alive. Mark rubbed the temples of his forehead, attempting to clear his mind. He didn’t especially want to go out, but he remembered how worried he was about Roger when he went through his depression after April. April. April, preventable, Mark’s fault, AIDS, drugs. Mark shuddered, silently cursing himself for thinking about April. 

He felt nauseous again, and began toying with the idea of not actually going to the resturant, but shook it off. He had to, or else Mimi would sneak everyone into his house and they could witness his absolute laziness. The loft was messy for him mostly sleeping the week away, and he wasn’t in any mood to clean it.

Mark was about to go out to the Café, when he realized he had not been told what time he should be there. He had to call someone, even though Mark despised phone calls. He picked up the receiver and began dialing a number. Ring. Ring. Ring. On the other end, Joanne picked up the phone. “Mark?”

“Hey, Jo.” He said, exhaling rather forcefully.  
“Is everything alright? Are you okay? It’s been a while; we’re all worried about you.”  
“Yeah, I think I am. I just haven’t really had much energy, but I’m alright now! Hey, so Collins told me we’re all meeting at the café but he didn’t tell me what time we are meeting.”  
The other end was silent for a moment, and then Joanne spoke, “We’re meeting there for lunch.” Her voice still sounded worried, tinged with suspicion.   
Mark quickly checked his watch; 11:37 AM. “All right I’ll be there in a bit. See you all soon!”  
“See you, Mark. It’s really good to hear from you again.”   
“Same, I missed talking to you.”

There was an awkward silence, then Mark said goodbye and Joanne said goodbye and Mark hung up. He ran his fingers through his mess of hair. He needed a haircut, he noted with a sigh. Maybe he could get Mimi to trim it, or even Maureen. He hurried to the bathroom, searching for a comb. Quickly finding one, he ran it through his hair and then grabbed his bike, carrying it out into the cold autumn air of Avenue A.

He hopped onto his bicycle, and began pedaling towards the Life Café. The ride was about 15 minutes total, and he was rather relieved to be able to breathe in fresh air. He tried to think about how excited he was, or should be, to see his friends after a week, even though it wasn’t very long, he still felt like it was an eternity. He felt bad for not being excited to see them. He tried to think about the delicious smell of the Life Café, the smell of the food cooking. He still didn’t feel hungry, had little to no appetite. They’d make him eat if he didn’t order anything. 

Upon arrived at the Life, Mark pushed the bike into the bike rack, and went into the restaurant. His eyes flickered around the room, searching for the table where his friends sat. At if on cue, he saw Maureen’s head turn, and she stood and waved him over. He smiled, a little nervous, and went over to the table. They’d gush over him; they always did in times like this, times where he’d isolate himself then return to normal living. They shouldn’t be gushing over him; they should be gushing over Collins being back, he thought. He hated being alone, but he hated the attention being on him. 

The group greeted him with an excited; “Mark!” and he gave them a grin and sat down. He hated himself for thinking this, but it’d be a long night.


	4. Chapter 4

The Life Café was buzzing with excitement. People of all types sat at tiny tables; couples; friends; enemies. A bundle of smells were mixed in together: coffee, foods, and alcohol, to name a few. The world was so alive, so bright, and so colorful.

It was also so dark.

Mark made his way over to where his friends had pushed two of the small tables together to fit everyone around. He tried not dwell on how dark and upsetting the world was, though his mind was constantly tempted to do so; his mind was focusing on the beauty of the world around him. Though to him colors were dim and grey, to another they may be especially boisterous, and another may see no color at all. Such is life. 

Mimi stood when Mark got to the table, offering a contagious smile he could not help but return. How was she so happy? Her boyfriend was dead, and she was able to smile? Mark had trouble leaving the loft itself, and she could be smiling? Unfair. Collins moved from his sitting position to all the way to the end of the table – where Mark stood – and gave the shorter man a hug.  
“Mark, so great to see you, man!” Collins said.  
“Good to see you too.” He said quietly, then spoke again, not wanting to come across as rude; “How the restaurant?”  
“Oh, Angel’s is doing well! Lots of people are coming now, and I have drummers who work there now. I wish she could drum there instead, but she would’ve loved the way it is now, I hope.”  
Mark nodded, and with a smile said, “I’m sure she would.” 

The thick, heavy smell of coffee made him feel sick, so he quickly sat down at the head of the table. Maureen seemed to come out of nowhere, and she enveloped him in a tight, friendly hug. This did not help the nauseous feeling that was in his stomach. “Hey, Mo.”  
“Mark, we haven’t seen you in AGES!”  
Yeah. A week is ages. “I haven’t really been feeling too hot.”  
“Well, I’m so sorry about Roger. It must be so hard for you; I mean you two were best friends, after all. It must be strange having the entire loft to yourself. I’m so so so SO sorry, honey.”  
“It’s okay, I’m okay.” He assured her calmly.  
She continued talking, “I mean, you two were practically boyfriends or something, right? Like, there was some kind of relationship like that, at some point!”  
Mark stared at her, feeling uncomfortable, especially with Mimi there. “No. We never - we weren’t in a relationship.”  
“Oh.” 

The air was an awkward silence. Maureen went back over to sit by Joanne, and struck up a conversation with Mimi about something. Mark didn’t talk very much. A waiter came over and took his order; Mark ordered fries and a black coffee.  
“You’re not having anything else?” Mimi asked him, an eyebrow raised.  
“I’m not feeling too well.” He replied.  
“Do you want me to walk you back to the loft?”  
“No, I biked here. I’m all right, I’m gonna stay.” 

The world was colorless, bleak. He didn’t want the fries. They were greasy and disgusting, and he felt sick enough already. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate, though he wasn’t very hungry in the first place. 

The rest of the group ordered the usual thing they got, with the exception of Maureen, who ordered a different thing every time. She always tried to persuade Mimi or Mark to order some different than they usually did but was rarely very successful with her attempts. Mimi did her usual “give Collins a bad time for ordering meatless balls” thing.  
Mark sighed. He should be enjoying this, he used to always enjoy it, but now he didn’t. Had he changed? Has his friends changed? Was he just a general asshole since Roger died? The world seemed to be so mixed up, so unclear, and so difficult. It had lost its glow. He had not brought his camera tonight. He wondered if they had noticed.  
Their orders got to their table(s) and he picked up a fry, dipped it into the ketchup, and bit off half of it. He cringed internally; greasy and disgusting. He popped the other half of the fry into his mouth and leaned forward in his chair, attempting to listen to what the rest of them were talking about. 

*

When the waiters took the dishes away from the table and left the bill on the table, Mark decided this was his cue to leave. It was probably around one or two now, so they probably wouldn’t have a problem with it. He was tired. It was nice talking with them again, but he just needed to go home now. Too bad he wasn’t feeling very well. They probably thought he was a drag. The group laughed at something Collins said. He laughed along, not really understanding what it was about. His mannerisms felt robotic.

“I’d better go.” Mark whispered to Mimi.  
“What, already?” she asked, taking a sip of her drink.  
“Yeah, I’m feeling a little worse than I was earlier. I should probably go home and get some rest.”  
Mimi pursed her lips but nodded. “All right, stay safe, okay?”  
“Okay.” He stood. “Well, as much fun as this was, I better be getting home soon.”  
“Awwwwwwww, come onnnnn Marky! Stay a little longer?” Marueen begged, smiling her infectious smile.  
Mark shook his head, smirking and setting a ten dollar bill onto the table. “No, I can’t. I’ve got a typewriter that’s calling my name.”  
“Nerd.” Collins joked.  
Mark laughed, and gave each person at the table a hug. “It was great, really! I’ll see you guys soon.”

Mark then went out of the restaurant, hopped onto his bike, and went home. The loft seemed emptier than usual, colder than ever. He kicked his shoes off his feet and flopped onto the couch. He should work on a new script, or edit the film he had taken in the last few weeks but he didn’t want to; the camera made him feel sick. He filmed Roger as he had gotten worse and worse and he didn’t want to have to see that again. He rubbed his temples, a piercing headache striking a chord in his brain. 

He went to his bedroom, and sat on his bed, strumming his callused fingers over the guitar; he was playing Musetta’s Waltz. The tune Roger had played so very many times, seemed to soothe him. Mark had always thought that saying “my heart hurts” was bullshit, but now, his heart really did hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! sorry that this chapter is a little late. i was in the car all day yesterday, and was not able to update this. i hope you enjoy!


	5. Chapter 5

“Mimi, I already told you. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”  
“You have to face it sooner or later, Mark. You have to accept it. I know it’s hard, I’ve been through hell with this too, but you have to realize it’s not the end of the world.”  
“Oh, please, tell me more. Tell me more about how I shouldn’t be sad that my best friend for ten or so years is dead! I should take advice from someone who knew him for what, a third of time I knew him, and then was over his death in a month! I’d love to hear all about how I have no goddamn right to play the victim. It’s just my best friend, I mean, it’s no big deal.”

“Mark. You know that’s not-“

“No, it’s okay Mimi, it really is. You’re right. I should just completely forget the fact that Roger is fucking dead, and sift into complete apathy. I should just continue on with my life, looking for a beautiful silver lining. God knows that’s what everyone else does! I should just be a normal person, and forget every single bad thing that’s happened to me, right?”

Mimi glared at him. “Fuck you.”

Crossing his arms, Mark sat on the couch, expecting her to leave. He wouldn’t blame her; the two of them just spent the past 25-ish minutes yelling at each other. Oh, what would the neighbors think? He wanted to scream, be buried by a mass of blankets and the two pillows he owned. Mimi just stood there; anger and fear simmering beneath her cool, yet worried expression. He sighed; he didn’t want to be an ass to her. He just felt angry a lot anymore, and it was easy to set him off. It wasn’t her fault.

 

It had been a month since the funeral.

 

Mark knew he was being a hypocrite by being so easily angered. He always had gotten on Roger for being a dick, and now Mark was in turn being a dick. Mimi sat next to him. 

“Mark,” she said softly, clearly trying a new approach to get through to him. Yelling wasn’t cutting it. “Mark. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come across like that.”

Sure she didn’t. Still angry at her, but wanting to settle things he said: “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine; he was still hurt and angry by how she seemed to think he should simply get over it. He cracked his knuckles, self-conscious of the silence, and Mimi glared at him good-naturedly. “You know how annoying that is.”

“That’s was my point, of course.” He joked.

“I’d better go. Please, just, remember it’s not the end of the world. Okay? Promise?”  
He paused, trying to keep his emotions in check. He didn’t want to blow up at her again, but that comment grated his nerves. “Yeah.” He replied stiffly.

She nodded, and with a “Bye” went out the door. She had moved out of the cramped apartment underneath the loft. Something about it being too lonely and depressing since Roger died. 

Something about her finally having enough money to move; she had quit shooting, so she had a bunch of money left over. He was happy for her, but it was different not seeing her exit through the window. At least he didn’t have to worry about her breaking in again.

He peered out the window, to see if she had gone yet. Sure enough, she was on her way down the street, going home, or to a bar, or to work, who knows.

He was alone again; at least he was not hurting anyone. It sure seemed like now whenever he was around someone got hurt. He sat on the couch for a while, dwelling for a bit on the argument with Mimi. He really couldn’t understand how she expected him to just forget about Roger. He had known Roger since Mark was fourteen. They met August 30, 1988. Mark was a dorky, pimply freshman. Roger was an older, punker, but also dorky freshman.

*

Mark was sitting at the lunch table, easily going unnoticed by everyone else. Mark wasn’t the most sociable fourteen-year-old, and much preferred to be on his own. He wasn’t focused on eating as much as he was on scratching words into his thick, beat-up notebook. He was plotting storylines, writing scripts, and doing character sketches. It was the first week he had ever brought his writing notebook to school, and he was nervous.

He usually worked on just-assigned homework during lunch, to get ahead and give him more time for writing when he got home. That was, until a few repeat cases where junior assholes stole his homework to copy, and he started having to redo his homework. He ended up not working on school at lunch. Now he was worried that they would steal his writing, but he decided to risk it; maybe no one would pay attention to him now.

His hopes were quickly dashed when someone came over to him and sat down across from him. It was that Davis kid. He was the type of freshman who was allowed to hang out with the juniors, maybe even seniors. He was the type of kid who stole Mark’s homework a couple weeks ago.

Mark didn’t say anything, so Davis spoke. “Hi. Shit, sorry about the homework thing, dude. Got caught copying your stuff. You know how it is.”

“No, I don’t. Please enlighten me.” Mark snarked, not looking up from his writing.  
“Anyways, I need you to help me with the Eng- what’re you writing in that fuckin’ book that makes you look so intense?” he swiped the book from Mark, and started reading it. “Scripts? Plots? You write?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, I write too.”

Mark’s eyes widened, and he seemed to perk up a little. “What do you write?” God please don’t let it be poetry. Don’t be poetry don’t be poetry don’t be poetry.

“I write shitty songs. I’m in a band; it’s called Before Tomorrow is Buried. We have a gig on Friday, if you wanna come, we’ve been practicing and we’re getting really fuckin’ good. You should come.

“Yeah, and let people make a joke out of me? Sounds like a lot of fun. I’d love to be there.” Mark said drolly. Damn, this guy was pretentious. He might as well write poetry.

“I didn’t come over here to listen to your smartass responses. I need some help with writing the English essay.”

Mark sighed. At least the guy wasn’t stealing his work and just wanted help. Should he? It was risky, and could very well be a waste of time. “Fine.”

“Sweet. What are you writing?”

“I don’t know, I just am trying to get some ideas for a film.”

“What kind of films do you make?”

Mark paused, a little reluctant to reply. He didn’t have to tell this guy anything about his plans to become a filmmaker, but for some reason, he did. Mark licked his lips and spoke, “I actually haven’t made a film yet. I don’t have a camera. I want to make documentaries.”

“Hey, you could make one about an up-and-coming band called ‘Before Tomorrow is Buried.’ I bet it’d be a real hit.”

Mark’s shell cracked, and he let out a laugh. “Maybe. I’m Mark Cohen.”

“Mark Cohen eh? Sounds like a director name. I think there’s a film club. You should join it. I’m Roger Davis.” The boy – Roger – grinned.

“Maybe I will.” The bell rang. “Better get to class.”  
“Okay. Hey – meet me when school’s out and you can help me with the essay, alright? See you around, Mark Cohen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this update is A WEEK LATE. To make it up to you all, expect another update either later tonight or tomorrow! Enjoy.


	6. Chapter 6

A couple days after the fight, Mark had slept on the couch. When we woke, he felt sick to his stomach, and slightly guilty. He hated falling asleep on the couch, as he felt unhygienic the day after, what with not brushing his teeth or changing into sleepwear. He went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, using the last of the toothpaste. The minty freshness of the toothpaste made him feel even worse somehow, and he spat it out to go make some instant coffee.

Waiting for the kettle to heat up, he sat down on the stool, tapping his fingers on the table repetitively. He had a whole day to himself – unless Mo, Jo, or even Mimi wanted him to join them for brunch. Mimi probably wouldn’t talk to him for a while. While he was upset and worried about their argument (he was constantly replaying it in his head over and over and over), he figured it would give him a break. He wondered if she hated him now. He couldn’t remember exactly what the two had said to each other. She probably did hate him now. 

Great going, Cohen.

His face suddenly felt very hot and his heart rated bumped up. He felt like the sound that was whistling through the air; loud and angry and upset. He let out a heavy, tense sigh and pushed the kettle to the backburner, letting it cool before he poured the boiled water into his cup. Maybe he’d call Collins up and see how he’s doing. Maybe he’d throw out his old film and start a new one. The old one had Roger in it, and Mark really didn’t feel up to portraying Roger’s death in film. Maybe he’d make one about life. 

No, that’s cliché, and also bullshit.

Mark reached for the handle of the kettle and watched the steaming water turn into shit-brown water when it came into contact with the coffee. He stirred it and toyed with future film ideas. He stirred the cup too quickly and the coffee burnt his hand. He jerked it back, and washed it off with cold water from the sink. 

Much like the water boiling and bubbling, ideas bubbled up in his mind, and yet he pushed them to the back burn. He didn’t feel motivated to film; most of what he did was shit anyways, he figured. Mark took a sip of the coffee and swallowed. Thank god he hated all coffee other than black coffee. All the creamers and sugars would be too expensive otherwise. 

He finished up his coffee, and placed the cup on the counter as a reminder to wash the dishes later. He’d go to the park, he decided, and enjoy the fresh air. Lately New York had been getting a little bit warmer, though you could detect a slight chill if you stayed out long enough. Maybe he’d feel inspired, or stop thinking about Roger so damn much. Maybe he’d be able to not feel so angry all the time. 

Grabbing his coat, Mark headed pulled it on as he went out the door. The air was warm with only the slightest breeze. He put his camera into his messenger bag, and started towards the park on his bike. It was a Saturday, and streets were busy. Children laughing; birds chirping; people shouting; every little sound seemed to irritate him more and more. The park was full of people, so he sought out an empty bench to sit down on. People-watching seemed to be a new interest of his. 

He got out his camera, and began filming. “Pan across the park. Children laugh and play, and the birds sing. It’s a new day in New York City: Center of the Universe.”

Times are shitty, but Mark was sure they couldn’t get any worse.

He chuckled to himself. It felt so good to be filming again; it had been so long since he had actually used his camera. Unable to find an empty bench, he got back onto his bike and pedaled towards a street that was usually very busy. He stood at a corner and started the film again; “Pedestrians are frequent here, they seem to form a small mob.”  
His ideas for scripts were running low, and his improv was a little rusty. He sighed, and shut off the camera, and started to bike. He didn’t have anywhere he was planning to go, but he just needed to bike. His brain felt drained and tired, and this made him mad. This used to be so easy for him, now he had to relearn his skill. He didn’t dare call it a talent now.

His legs ached, and he grew tired of biking and eventually ended up back at his apartment.

 

*

 

A week or so later, Mark went to a therapist for the first time in his life.

“All right, Mark. Tell me a bit about yourself, and the situation that prompted this visit.” Stacy (his therapist) said.

Mark was silent, a bit nervous. He had no idea what to expect, nor if he should spill his guts right then and there. He felt sick, the world was spinning. He felt his face get hot, and when he tried to speak his words came out jumbled and stuttery. “I’m twenty-eight. Sorry for st-stuttering.”

Stacy nodded. “It’s okay.”

“This is my first time at a therapy session, and I’m nervous.” Black and blue dots appeared before his eyes, his heart raced. Fuck.

“Okay. We don’t have to get into your current situation right now. Tell me about your family.”

He was reluctant to talk about his family. “I have a mother and father and a sister and two nieces. I don’t really talk to anyone in my family much anymore, my mom calls me sometimes but that’s it. My Dad and I don’t really get along. Ever since I didn’t live up to what he wanted me to be he’s been pissy and I don’t want to bother to fix the relationship I just want to forget about it all. My older sister, Cindy, is the perfect child in the family.”

Stacy nodded, and wrote something down on her clipboard. God, he probably sounded whiny now. “Go on.” She prompted. He stayed silent. He didn’t want to be here he didn’t want to be here he wasn’t this bad off he could get on fine he was okay okay okay okay okay.

“Mark?”

“What?” he replied, feeling disoriented with his surroundings.

“Everything all right?”

He breathed a laugh, “No. That’s why I’m here. You’re supposed to listen to my shit and dig into it so I can be normal.”

“My best friend died. I’ve known him for fourteen years and he died a month and a half ago and it hurts really badly! Everyone is trying to empathize with me but it won’t work because they haven’t had a best friend who died! Maybe they had a grandma or grandpa die, but לעזאזל עם זה” he subconsciously slipped back into Hebrew. He rarely did that; only when he was most upset, or trying to keep the ears of others ‘pure’ would he swear in Hebrew. “I just don’t know what to do.”

Stacy nodded and wrote more words down on her stupid fucking clipboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There! Now I'm all caught up with updates. To save you guys some time, the Hebrew says "to hell with it." Hope you guys like how things are going for Mark.


	7. Chapter 7

Even after having been in therapy for a few weeks, Mark still felt pissed off. He was officially diagnosed with major depression, which he had apparently dealt with a majority of his life, untreated. He distanced himself farther from his friends, but at least he answered their phone calls. His therapist said this was a step forward, but he didn’t really understand how. He had depression medication, which made him nauseous and caused insomnia and a whole lot of other shit. Collins sent money to help him pay for therapy, which made Mark feel guilty. Benny had been broken off from the group, mostly after his affair with Mimi ended. Good for him, she didn’t spread HIV to him or Alison, that is, if he was still married to Alison.

Mark drank a lot more coffee, but ate less food. His therapist said this was a symptom of depression – the lack of appetite. You’d either eat too much or too little. Mark decided depression was bullshit, and though he didn’t believe meds would help him. He tried to hold out a little hope, though.

He got sick of feeling crazy; he was scared his friends would leave him if they found out how bad off he was, and it reminded him of when April died. He was the one who had found April dead in the bathroom, and he had to deal with the aftermath of it, he had to comfort Roger about his dead girlfriend and him having AIDS and his career possibly being ruined and all this shit. Now there was no one there for Mark when he needed someone. Roger would’ve been there for him. 

The phone rings. “Ah, saved by the bell.” Mark murmured to himself, remembering he wasn’t supposed to dwell on Roger’s death so deeply.  
“Hello?” he asked as he picked the phone up from the receiver. 

“Hey, Mark! Joanne, Mimi, and I were wondering if you wanted to go see a film with us?” Maureen chirped from the other end of the line. She was so happy, it seemed. All the time, she was so cheery. Was it her extroversion, or was she genuinely happy? 

“I’d love to.” Mark said. It was better than him staying home, and he wanted to get reconnected with his friends, hopefully.

“JOANNE!” she screamed into the phone, causing Mark to jump. She wasn’t the most technologically-advanced person he knew. God, even Joanne was better with it than Mo. “Sorry, Marky!” 

He heard whispers from the other end, and strained to tell what they were saying. All he could make out was “party” and “movie” and various other fragments of the conversation. “Marky? You there?” Maureen spoke up, her New York accent thick and prominent. 

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Great, ‘kay, so we’re gonna go to the movie and then go to the little shops near it, if that’s ‘kay with you.” She always dropped the ‘O’ in her ‘okays,’ which is something that bugged him to no end.

Maureen must have thought he sounded extra positive, she must have thought that he would now have limitless unbounded energy since he was in therapy. He almost sighed, but he stopped himself before he did. He didn’t want to be rude, though even this simple conversation seemed to drain him. “Yeah, I’m okay with that.”

"Aw, hell yeah! This is gonna be so much fun. The movie's at 7:40 but if you want to get food you better get there at 7:30, haha!"

He reluctantly laughed along with her, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. "Well, I'll see you all there then."

"Bye, Marky! Bye Mark." Two voices this time; Joanne must've been hanging around the phone too, Mark noted. He set the phone back on the receiver, took his meds, and went about getting ready. 

 

*

 

He arrived at the movie theatre at precisely 7:38. When he was growing up, his mother had raised him to be on time, and even a little early to all his appointments. Roger used to always tease him about this, though Mark blew it off.

He bought tickets for a show, and then scoured the main hall for his friends. He knew they'd be waiting just in front of the user's booth. Mark spotted Mimi first, who was flirting with the usher. 

"Hey, guys!" he said with a smile. 

Joanne grinned and said, "Hi. We're waiting for Maureen." Joanne never really seemed fond of the nickname the others used; ‘Mo.’ Joanne always referred to Maureen with her proper name. Mark found this very interesting.

"She had to piss." Mimi said, laughing lightly. The usher, who seemed enthralled with Mimi before, seemed a little put-off by her statement. His name tag read 'Chad.' She could do much better than a Chad.

Maureen then flamboyantly emerged from the women's room, looking like a model. Mark looked over to Joanne, and smiled at her expression. She was undoubtedly in love, and Mark was happy for them. 

"God, Mo! You have to stop that looking-great thing, you'll make the rest of us look bad." Mimi said with a wink. 

The two of them laughed, and Joanne put her arm around Maureen’s waist, and handed their tickets to the Chad and he took them, putting them into the little box. “Room 8 is showing your film.” Chad said.

“Thanks, hun.” Mimi grinned at him, causing him to smile back at her. The smile spread around the group, infecting Maureen and Joanne and then Mark. It was the first real smile that had graced his face in months. It felt good, and Mark felt finally positive. 

As the group found their seats, Mark poked Mimi. “Hey, what was that about?” 

“What was what about?” she asked teasingly.

“Meems, that guy was practically drooling over you.” Mark couldn’t help but feel protective over the young Latina.

She let out a girlish giggle, quite unlike Mimi. “Do you think so?”

“Well, yeah, but you better be careful. His name was Chad. Chad’s are always assholes.”

Mimi laughed, and pulled a chocolate bar out of her purse and unwrapped it. “If you must know, I’m not really looking for a dating relationship yet. At least, I don’t think so. I want to be single for a while.” She took a bite.

Maybe Mark had misjudged her. Maybe he had doubted her. Mimi had always been the cute badass of the group, and they had believed her to be okay. Maybe Mark was wrong; maybe she needed to heal just as much as him. Maybe, just maybe, he was being a tad bit selfish over Roger. He sighed, a little angry at himself, and as the bright glow from the movie theater filled the room, and the lights dimmed.

 

The rest of the group seemed enthralled with the movie, yet Mark’s mind was racing a hundred miles a minute. He felt restless, and like he could hardly focus. He was still thinking of Mimi. He cast a worried glance towards her, and noticed she had chocolate on her cheek. He leaned over wiped it off, whispering, “You have some schmutz on your face.” 

She chuckled and said; “You’re like a Jewish mom.”

“Having been raised by a real-life Jewish mom, I readily accept the title.”

 

*

 

After the movie, the girls were chattering about the plot and characters, and Mark felt lost. He hardly knew what they were talking about; he wasn’t very focused during the movie.  
“Mark, what did you think? Who was your favorite character?” Joanne asked, offering a smile. Maureen and Mimi didn’t give him much room to talk, as they continued discussing the deep metaphors of the plot. 

“Uh, I liked the protagonist.”

“Devin? Really? I thought he was a sort of jerk.” Mimi said, breaking off from the conversation with Mo.

“I thought he was, sort of, redeemable at the end.” He answered, hoping that he was right. 

Awkwardness filled the air as no one in the group said anything. “Mark, he died at the end.” Joanne said breaking the silence.

“Oh, that’s right, haha. I forgot.”

After a moment, the entire group busted up into laughter. “Okay, I wasn’t really paying that much attention.” Mark laughed along with them.

“It’s ‘kay, Mark! But please tell me you understood the metaphor about death being like a void! That’s why they had the credits at the beginning; and just nothingness at the end. It was beautifully done.”

“Sure Mo, I got that.”


	8. Chapter 8

After the movie, and walking around town with the girls, Mark quietly and easily went home to his apartment. He was exhausted, but in a better mood than he’d usually be in. He flung himself down onto the couch, and as he was beginning to doze off, he got a call. “Oy.” He muttered, and breathing out a disgruntled sigh, he got up and answered the phone. “Hello?” he asked, wondering to himself who in the world would be calling this late.

“Mark? Oh, thank god you answered.” Mimi’s voice sounded panicked, and Mark began to feel anxious himself.

“Meems, is everything all right?” he asked her, fiddling with a string that had come loose from the woven part of the couch.

On the other end, there was a pause, an exhale, then a sob. “No, no, nothing’s all right. Roger; it finally hit me. God, Mark, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I was an idiot to expect you to be okay, oh my god I’m so sorry.”

To say Mark was shocked at this was an understatement. He wasn’t exactly sure how to take it, how to respond, how to comfort her through the phone. It felt wrong, he felt like he should be on the other end, holding her. Not romantically, of course, Mark wasn’t interested in her that way, and if he were it’d be a little odd considering what they had both gone through recently. “It’s okay, Meems, you’re gonna be alright.” 

His heart rate bumped up, and he felt a little perturbed at the lateness of her apology. He brushed the anger away, and spoke again. “Do you want me to come over?”  
“Yes, that’d be great, thank you so much.”

 

*

 

When Mark arrived at Mimi’s new apartment he was out of breath. Biking to his therapist was too far of a bike ride, and his therapist recommended whenever he felt angry or sad to do something relaxing. This had caused him to turn into a bit of a couch potato, which caused him to have a little harder of a time biking places quickly.  
It was a little past two in the morning when he got there, and he ran up the stairs and knocked on her door. The building was a shabby and closed-in. New Yorkers did not kid around when they said that the apartments were shoeboxes. He and Roger had really lucked out, Mark noted before remembering he was supposed to recognize Roger in the past tense instead of present.

She opened the door to let him in and he followed her to her makeshift living room. They sat on the floor (she had a distinct lack of seating in her apartment), and Mark wrapped his arms around her, trying to help calm her down at least a little bit. “It hurts, I don’t know,” She wailed. 

He began to rock slightly, knowing that since that had always calmed him down, and maybe it would soothe her as well. “I know, I know, it really does. You loved him, and he loved you, but it’s gonna be alright now. You’ll be alright, Meems.” 

Feeling at a loss for words, Mark sat with her for a while longer. “Life sure does suck, huh?”

She let out a weak laugh, and nodded, pulling away. Mark continued, “But one day, I promise you, your life will be so goddamn wonderful and beautiful that this won’t hurt so much. I can’t promise you’ll totally forget this happened, or that the pain will go away forever, but it won’t hurt as much.”

“Thanks.” She replied. He worried that what he said was somehow wrong and that she was mad at him and not comforted. Did it sound half-hearted? He worried that it was too cheesy, like the people who suggest doing yoga and eating granola bars to help with depression.

“How can I help you now?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Just stay, for now. I want to be alone but know someone’s there. Not that I don’t appreciate you being here right now, I just think I need some space, a break.”  
He nodded; he totally got her, in a way. Everyone experiences grief differently, yet in the same way. “I’ll stay as long as you want until you get tired of me. I sure can be a pain in the ass.” He teased, grinning.

She went to the bathroom to change into a tank top and sweats, and then lay on her bed. Mark sat next to her, attempting to ‘be there’ for her, whatever ‘being there’ meant. No one ever explained that to you, he thought, frowning. No one ever told you what to do when your best friend died, and how you can help yourself and also your best friend’s girlfriend without either of you feeling selfish. 

He sighed, and wiped his eyes. They were wet with tears, but he hadn’t noticed he was crying. He wished there was some way he could’ve stopped this all from happening. He knew, though, that there was a way he could have prevented Roger from dying; he probably even could’ve prevented April from dying.

Mark knew they were doing drugs, and he didn’t stop them. Why didn’t he? He could have put his foot down the moment Roger told him, he should have stopped them from developing an addiction. This was his entire fault, Roger dying. It was his fault that Roger was dead, that he was depressed and angry, his fault that Mimi had been crying at 2 A.M. His fault his fault his fault his fault. 

Mimi was asleep, so Mark checked his watch. It read: 2:47 A.M. He laid on the floor - as he wasn’t completely sure how Mimi’d feel about him sleeping on her bed – and fell asleep quickly; his thoughts plagued by guilt and fear. 

 

*

 

The next morning, Mark had woken up before Mimi did, and began making breakfast out of what little food she had in the cupboards. He ended up making scrambled eggs with a bagel that had peanut butter on it. He hoped she’d like it. He didn’t have much of an appetite himself, but he figured she would be hungry from last night; they had not gone out to dinner, and she hadn’t eaten anything but chocolate and popcorn.

Mark scoured the kitchen, but, unfortunately could not find any coffee. He forgot she didn’t drink coffee, and now he’d have to make do without. There was some beer in the apartment, and Mark was shocked for a moment, before he realized she wasn’t the 19-year-old anymore. When the two had met, Mark forbade her from drinking even a drop of alcohol again until she was twenty-one. New Year’s was excluded from this, however.

Sleeping Beauty entered the kitchen, dark circles under her eyes, her thick, curly hair tangled and messy. “I smelled eggs. Did you cook?” she asked, yawning in the middle of her sentences.

“Yeah, and a bagel and peanut butter.” He replied with a smile, taking a sip of beer.   
“You’re drinking this early?”

“Hell, why not? You don’t have any fuckin’ coffee here, what’s a guy to do?”

“You have a problem, and that problem is you drinking mass amounts of coffee.” She teased lightly. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re drinking alcohol instead of coffee.” She began munching on her food, and he drank some more. “You know how they say coffee stunts your growth? Well, maybe that’s why I’m nearly taller than you.”


End file.
